by Tony Park
And here he was. Alone for more than a year now. Cheated of his life and his wife. He tried not to dwell on it, but everything in the house reminded him of her. How could it not? He left the hall light off as he walked through to the kitchen. Maybe by staying in the dark the memories would dim. He found the key on the hook by the little blackboard where she used to write her shopping lists. It was right where she had left it. Alex was the last person to have touched the key to Nick’s home. He stood there in the darkened kitchen and closed his eyes. He held the key in his fist and squeezed it until he felt the pain of the serrated metal edges digging into his palm. He opened his eyes and walked out again, ignoring the four or five letters sitting on the hallway floor.
Tom’s old hard top E-type Jag started first time and the V12 purred deeply, like a giant cat welcoming its owner home with a leg rub. Alex had wanted to get a new car, but Tom liked old things – old British things – and with overtime he could even afford to fill the tank once in a while. He could never see himself driving a Renault or something Japanese.
As he drove, settling into a slow lane of traffic, a vision of Alex’s wasted body, her eyes so deep in their sockets they looked bruised, popped into his head. He screwed his eyes shut for a second. A horn blasted beside him and he realised he had momentarily drifted out of his lane. He forced himself to concentrate and ignored the young black man’s abuse as the boy racer overtook him. ‘Get a grip,’ he said out loud in the car. The clock on the dashboard said nine pm. He felt like a drink.
Tom let the traffic signs lead him to the A406 and joined the rolling traffic jam for the leg that would take him around the western side of London to Kingston in the south west, which was where Nick lived, not far from Henry the Eighth’s Hampton Court palace. He became conscious of a car beside him, not accelerating or decelerating. He looked across and saw a blonde woman in a BMW Z4 convertible. Pretty, late thirties or well-preserved early forties. She wore a plain white blouse – a businesswoman, he guessed, maybe driving home from work late. She looked across and smiled at him. He smiled back, but mustn’t have done a very good job because she planted her foot and whizzed past him. Twenty years ago he might have done the same and chased her through the traffic. Now he just felt guilty as Alex smiled back at him, bravely, despite the tubes draining and filling her poisoned body. He shook his head. They – he – had just passed the one year anniversary of her death. That had been a tough, drunken night.
The drive took him past Richmond Park. Once the hunting estate of kings, it was now a Royal Park, open to all. He negotiated his way off the A307, around Kingston’s town centre, and found the quiet street where Nick lived. He’d been there with Alex enough times to remember the way. He pulled up outside the Edwardian semi. He rapped on the door and waited. No reply. He tried again.
He turned the key and opened the door, listening for beeps. He didn’t recall there being an alarm in the house and he hoped Nick hadn’t decided to install one since his last visit nearly two years ago.
The house was only a few degrees warmer than the cool night air, so the central heating must have been off. ‘Nick?’ he called. He walked on thick white carpet down the hallway. He vaguely remembered a darker hue. Deidre had taken Nick’s kids to live with her and her boss, an orthopaedic surgeon. Tom recalled thinking that Nick had seemed more angry at her choice of partner than the fact she had left him. Both he and Alex had sensed that the marriage had been on rocky ground for several years.
What did surprise Tom, however, was the new look in the house. The antique sideboards and overstuffed chintz sofas must have been all Deidre, as Tom almost had to blink at the minimalist, virtually all-white décor of the once cluttered lounge room. White leather and chrome retro-modern lounge chairs surrounded a glass-topped coffee table. A wide-screen plasma was hung on the wall and surround-sound speakers had taken the place of Constable prints and poorly executed landscapes by some relative of Deidre’s.
The only colour in the room came from a leopard skin in the centre of the floor. It looked garishly out of place. The kitchen, too, had been transformed from faux-country timber benchtops and wood grain laminate door panels into a sleek showpiece of gleaming stainless steel and black granite. ‘Nick?’ Tom called again, louder.
He walked upstairs and passed one of the kids’ rooms, which had been converted into an office with a flat-screen monitor on top of an antique leather-topped desk, the only concession to pre-twenty-first century living Tom had seen so far. The second bedroom contained an array of new-looking gym equipment – treadmill, exercise bike and a multifunction piece of kit which looked more like a futuristic torture device than an exercise machine. Tom jogged fifteen kilometres every second day of the week, no matter the weather, and followed his run with a hundred sit-ups and sixty push-ups. He thought gyms were posy, smelly places populated by people trying to pick each other up.
The main bedroom was the reverse of the lounge. Dark blue carpet; a king-size bed with a dark grey duvet patterned with black Chinese calligraphy; black satin sheets turned down; a feature wall painted a colour Alex would have called eggplant, and deep, dark reds on the other three. Tom turned on the light and noticed the dimmer switch. He twiddled it and smiled as he looked up into the new recessed lighting. On the feature wall was an impressionistic painting which, despite its blurred lines, was clearly of a naked woman reclining with her hands between her legs. Nick, it seemed, had embraced the bachelor lifestyle with a vengeance and this passion pit was clearly his operational headquarters. The bedside chest of drawers – made of some kind of black wood – contained two boxes of condoms and some porn DVDs. The movies were hetero and hard core by the look of them, but nothing kinky. Tom slid open a full-length mirrored wardrobe which revealed, in addition to shelves of neatly folded clothes and a rack of suits, another wide-screen TV and a player for the disks. There was also a digital video camera on a tripod. ‘You dog,’ Tom said.
What was clear was that Nick was not home and nor did he appear to have been in the house for some period of time. Tom walked back downstairs to the kitchen, where the telephone was. He had noticed the blinking red light on the answering machine, but had avoided intruding further into his colleague’s private life until necessary. It was necessary now. He pushed the button.
The machine beeped and a woman’s voice said: ‘It’s me. I don’t know how you got my number, but I’ll see you. Tonight. I’m on at the club from six until two.’ The tone sounded again. There were no other messages.
She sounded young, though her voice was quite deep, the pronunciation precise, as though the tongue was learned, not native. There was an ethnic accent there – possibly black African. Tom wondered if it was a potential girlfriend. A ‘club’ could mean a number of things. Being ‘on’ could refer to anything from working a shift behind a bar to a performance of some sort. He replayed the message. The girl’s tone was slightly annoyed. Perhaps Nick had seen her and wanted to get to know her better – hence her concern at him tracking her down. Tom hoped Nick hadn’t used police resources to get a woman’s phone number, but he wouldn’t have been the first to do so.
Tom moved to the refrigerator, intending to check how much food was there and its use-by dates to try to get a better feel for when Nick was last home. Before he opened it, a business card under an I love Ibiza magnet caught his eye. He lifted the card, holding it by the edges, for it was glossy and would probably hold a fingerprint quite well. There was a picture of a blonde in skimpy lingerie and high heels holding onto a brass pole and leaning out to one side. Club Minx was written underneath. On the back, written in pen, was a name – Ebony . A stripper’s stage name, perhaps? It gelled, too, with the African accent on the machine.
Tom’s mobile phone rang and he fished it out of the pocket of his duffel coat. ‘Hello, it’s Tom.’
‘Any luck? Are you at Nick’s place?’
It was Shuttleworth. ‘No and yes. There’s no sign of him, guv. Doesn’t look like he’s been here for . .
.’ Tom opened the fridge door and looked inside. The shelves were bare. In the door was a carton of milk with yesterday’s date as the use-by date. ‘. . . for quite some time. Fridge’s empty except for some stale milk. Heating’s turned off. Has he been overseas?’
‘No, but he was on leave for four days until he went back to Greeves today. The Secretary of State for Defence and junior ministers such as Greeves are being afforded close personal protection at home and abroad now because of the latest al-Qaeda threats. Nick must have gone straight to work from wherever he was spending his break. Then he vanished this evening. Any sign that he may have come home?’
Tom held up the card from the pole-dancing club and wondered. Though they’d once been friends via their wives, he owed no loyalty to Nick, other than what he might feel towards any other member of the team. Still, it didn’t do to go insinuating a detective on protection was consorting with sex workers. ‘No, but I can pop round to his local and see if anyone there’s seen or heard from him.’
‘Aye, okay. But don’t stay out on the piss until all hours. I want to see you in my office at eight-thirty tomorrow.’
‘What happened to my appointment with the shrink?’ And my lie-in, Tom thought.
‘That can wait. You seem quite sane to me.’
Tom kicked the fridge door closed and the Ibiza magnet slipped off to the floor. When he knelt to retrieve it, he saw the corner of a small piece of white card sticking out from under the fridge. He picked it up and found it was another business card. It had the name and mobile phone number of a freelance journalist on it. Tom didn’t recognise the name. He placed it on top of the fridge after writing the details in his notebook.
Club Minx was in Soho, a part of London Tom didn’t care for. He wasn’t a prude, and had been to his fair share of strip clubs – or table-dancing clubs as this one billed itself – but the congested, seedy hub depressed him.
The drunken office Johnnys in their suits and loosened ties saw only the smiles and flesh. As a bobby Tom had found teenagers who had overdosed in toilets; toms – whores – who had been beaten by their pimps or sadistic clients; kids from abusive families with nowhere to go and no other source of income than their own bodies; girls from the Far East and the former Soviet republics sold into modern-day slavery. There was nothing terribly sexy about any of that.
By the time he’d driven the Jag back to Highgate and caught the tube into the city it was nearly midnight. He’d ditched the duffel coat and slipped on a sports coat, so he looked less like a builder and more like an off-duty businessman.
Tom got off the Northern Line at Tottenham Court Road tube station. He showed his warrant card and wished he’d brought a waterproof jacket when he saw the footpath glistening in the reflected glow of streetlights. Raindrops were hitting a muddy puddle which had formed in a gutter dammed by rubbish. He walked down Oxford Street, which was still crowded with tourists and night people, coming or going to and from pubs and clubs. This part of the city was just coming to life.
Soho still clung to its reputation for sin and sleaze, but the truth was that the strip joints, brothels and sex shops were slowly but surely losing ground to bistros, restaurants, trendy bars and cafes. A new wave of businesses, largely fuelled by the pink pound, had also grown up in Old Crompton Street. What remained of Soho’s salacious past – at least, what was still visible to passers-by – was hemmed into a warren formed by Berwick, Walker and Peter streets. On Berwick he passed a shop with leather corsets and restraints in the window and ignored the urgings of a tout to come inside and see his fully nude girls.
A grey-haired man in a suit ducked out of an adult bookstore and looked guiltily both ways before darting into the passing throng of people. A group of a dozen lads in their late teens and early twenties sang the chorus of an old Rolling Stones song – badly – as they weaved down the narrow thoroughfare. A tourist couple paused in front of him, blocking the footpath, to check their London A-Z. Tom kept his impatience in check.
‘Been in a fight?’ the bouncer asked him as he descended the stairs from Peter Street.
‘Walked into a cupboard door,’ Tom said, unconsciously fingering the glass cut above his eye. He’d forgotten about it.
The bouncer looked him up and down and, deciding he wasn’t drunk, said, ‘All right. Don’t think I need to check your ID to see if you’re underage.’
The music he heard as he walked past the doorman had a beat he could feel in his chest. Slow, grinding. Music to disrobe to.
‘Ten pounds, please,’ the girl behind the reception desk said.
Tom wished he had told Shuttleworth about his informal investigation now. There was no way he’d be able to claim entrance to a strip club on his expenses if he wasn’t officially working. He didn’t want to flash his warrant card to the girl, which would cause a panic among the club’s workers and patrons and have them all start disappearing. He’d put money on a few of the girls being illegal immigrants.
‘Ta,’ the girl said as he handed over his money. She wore a low-cut mini-dress that left little to the imagination.
A man in his fifties, heavy set and bald, stood to one side of the counter. Extra security, Tom assumed. A skinny red-headed girl in a lime green Lycra skirt the width of a hair band and a matching boob tube tottered past on black platform-sole shoes with five-inch heels, leading an overweight man in a suit by the hand. The couple walked past reception, through a door. Tom watched their progress, then glanced back at the girl behind the cash register.
‘You been here before?’
‘No.’
‘Private shows are out the back. Just talk to any of the girls – they’ll be more than happy to oblige.’
He nodded and walked into the club. The air was heavy with a cloying mist of disinfectant, cigarette smoke and perspiration, all masked by cheap perfume. A girl dressed in white stay-up stockings and matching bra and pants smiled at him as she brushed by, carrying a tray of drinks.
In the centre of the room was a square podium, joined to the black ceiling by two brass poles. There were seats for maybe twenty people around the stage, though there were only four punters there now, up close, ogling a brunette who was naked except for a brief G-string, black patent leather high heels, nipple rings, and a garter stuffed with notes. She, too, smiled at him as he took a chair opposite the other men.
The girl turned her back to Tom and knelt in front of the men. ‘Show us everything,’ one of them said, loud enough for Tom to hear over the grinding music. She shook her head and he didn’t catch what the girl said, but the man who had spoken got up and returned to his table. His comrade got up soon after and joined him, leaving just two patrons. Tom watched them, beyond the girl’s flawless back. They had shaved heads, football shirts and too much bling. If they were crims – and judging by the spider-web tattoo on his neck, at least one of them had done time – they were small-time.
The waitress in bridal white came to Tom and he ordered a Beck’s. He also paid thirty quid for some plastic money to stuff in the girl’s garter. She was on her knees, but bent backwards until her hair brushed the stage. She was looking at Tom, upside down, and he smiled back at her.
Not getting any joy from the other two men, the girl used the pole to pull herself to her feet and, after climbing and swinging as she slid down again, crawled on all fours to Tom’s side of the podium. She grinned and winked when Tom held up a bill. She turned side on to him, so he could slide the money between her garter and her bare thigh. The transaction sealed, she leaned over him, allowing her long hair to fall around his face. Her nose was half an inch from his. She moved her mouth to his ear and blew in it.
‘Hello, my name is Ivana,’ she whispered.
‘Hello, my name’s Detective Sergeant.’
The smile vanished from the girl’s face as she rocked back on her haunches. Russian, maybe, or Ukrainian, or Latvian, or Lithuanian. It didn’t matter. He’d put a hundred quid on her being an illegal immigrant. She looked over her shoul
der towards the distant reception counter.
‘Don’t worry, Ivana, the management doesn’t know I’m a copper.’ The waitress deposited Tom’s beer in front of him.
She closed her legs. ‘What do you want?’
‘World peace, job satisfaction and a lasting relationship.’
She looked at him, puzzled. ‘I have nothing to say to police.’
‘Fine then, we can have a chat at the nearest nick, if you prefer. We can stop by your home and you can collect your passport. We’ll need to check your identity and residency status.’
‘I am not illegal, and I can prove it.’
Tom sipped his beer, then shrugged. ‘Says you. I can be back in half an hour with a couple of uniformed officers. That should do wonders for business.’
She looked over her shoulder again. ‘I finish dance in a few minutes. We can talk then. But I tell you now, policeman or not, no sex.’
Tom nodded. Ivana returned to the other side of the stage to try to milk a few more quid out of the football hooligans, and Tom found a table in a dark corner of the club.
Ivana finished her dance and stepped down from the stage, to a smattering of token applause from the score or so of other customers sitting at candle-lit tables. She shrugged into an abbreviated vinyl interpretation of a nurse’s uniform and walked over to Tom. The waitress returned and Ivana looked pointedly at the other girl, then back to Tom.
‘Oh, all right. What’ll it be?’
‘Double vodka and tonic.’
Tom ordered a second beer and winced when the girl told him the price. He shelled out some notes, wishing again he had done this by the book. The waitress left them.
‘If you are police, show me your identification.’
Tom pulled out his wallet and showed his warrant card.
‘Furey? It means madness?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Why don’t you tell the owner who you are?’ she asked him.
‘Where’s Ebony tonight?’
